


Happy Birthday, John

by kam



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 21:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1794493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kam/pseuds/kam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>as promised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday, John

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Happy Birthday, John](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/55849) by ShootBadCabbies. 



Of all the questionable things Sherlock had done in his (relatively) short life, this was, hands down, the most terrifying. Not _this_ , specifically – Sherlock had gone through John’s laundry at least a dozen times for various reasons, and he had certainly done it without John’s permission or even knowledge. That bit was actually relatively commonplace. He was used to sifting through pants that had come into _intimate_ contact with one John Watson. So, not _this_ , technically. Rather, the _reason_ he was going through John’s laundry was terrifying.

 

Sherlock felt a bit ill, to be honest, as he climbed through John’s window. He had, in fact, been expressly forbidden to do so, by both John’s parents and his own, but John had assured him it was perfectly fine, provided he didn’t get caught, and Sherlock, in return, had assured John that he wouldn’t. He knew this wasn’t quite what John had anticipated when they’d had that discussion, but surprise is the spice of life, or something like that.

 

John was certainly surprised. He was lying on his bed, legs thrown carelessly over the edge, but he sat halfway up as Sherlock closed the window behind him.

“I thought you were in London,”

he began, but stopped, throat suddenly dry, as Sherlock shimmied out of his trousers and stood before him, blushing like mad.

“Come here,”

John’s voice went rough, and Sherlock shivered a bit and obeyed, moving to stand in front of John as he sat up, hands immediately going to Sherlock’s hips, pulling him even closer.

“What’s this, then?”

“Happy,”

Sherlock blushed deeper as his voice broke and cleared his throat, trying again.

“Happy birthday, John.”

“I didn’t think you’d remember,”

John murmured, lifting the hem of _his_ rugby shirt (he wasn’t quite sure how Sherlock had gotten his hands on it, but he also wasn’t surprised he had,) catching his breath at the small, silky knickers he exposed.

“Christ, Sherlock,”

he breathed, and Sherlock muttered something under his breath.

“What’s that, love?”

John tore his eyes from the black lace around the top, managing to focus on Sherlock’s face as he repeated himself, still far too quietly for John to make out.

“You know I can’t hear you.”

“I _said_ ,”

Sherlock grumbled, avoiding eye contact,

“I said that I hope you like it.”

John grinned, pulling Sherlock down onto his lap, drawing a startled noise from the younger boy.

“I love it.”

 

Sherlock suddenly found himself straddling John’s lap, and he could quite clearly feel the truth behind John’s words through the soft material of his pyjama bottoms. He froze up for a moment, processing, until John pulled his chin down and kissed him gently. Sherlock responded instinctively, breathing in John’s scent – it had been fresh on the rugby shirt when he nicked it, but he had rather taken advantage of that, and it no longer smelled of him. John, clever, clever John, noticed this immediately, pulling back and laughing,

“You wanked in my shirt!”

“It smelled like you,”

Sherlock muttered, pressing his lips back to John’s. John chuckled into the kiss, but tightened his hands around Sherlock’s waist before sliding them down, gripping his arse and dipping his thumbs down below the band of his knickers, smoothing them across Sherlock’s skin.

“I can’t believe you took my shirt. _And_ my socks.”

“I thought they helped the effect.”

“They certainly do,”

John moved down to kiss Sherlock’s neck, nipping gently at his collarbone.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?”

Sherlock’s blush, finally subsiding, flared back to life, and John grinned as he felt the skin of Sherlock’s neck warm.

“You’re incredible, you’re gorgeous. You’re wonderful.”

As he spoke, he pulled Sherlock’s hips firmly forward, drawing a whine from Sherlock.

“I love you,”

he gasped, and John paused, pulling back to look up at him.

“I love you too, Sherlock.”

 

With Sherlock’s enthusiastic assistance, John shed his shirt, losing it immediately to the vast expanse of “fucked if I care” that suddenly encompassed everything in his bedroom that wasn’t Sherlock. Sherlock tried to follow suit, reaching down to lift the hem of the rugby shirt, but John’s hands stopped him.

“Leave it,”

the older boy murmured, a hint of pink touching his cheeks, and Sherlock looked at him oddly but nodded, moving his hands up to cup John’s face and draw him in for another kiss. John’s lips parted easily, and Sherlock took his time, despite the urgency he felt radiating through his body – he was, for all his great intelligence and ‘cleverness’, only fifteen, and his hormones had an altogether unacceptable amount of control over him, particularly when he was in close proximity to John. Which he was, as often as was possible, all things considered (separate schools, wildly different social circles, disapproving parents, etc.) None of that mattered, though, as they kissed, or as John used his (considerable) strength to lift Sherlock, tumbling him onto the bed and crawling on behind him.

“I thought I wouldn’t see you til August. I thought you’d be busy with that Summer course,”

John was incredibly adept at speaking clearly even as he kissed and bit at Sherlock’s neck, reaching up to move the curls that tried to stand in his way. Sherlock did his best to answer coherently, though his mind was in a dozen places, none of which included a response.

“I was. I am. I can’t stay long. I left for the weekend. I didn’t want to miss your birthday.”

John pulled back, and Sherlock felt him shifting about, discarding his pyjama bottoms, he surmised, taking the moments of respite to collect his thoughts.

“I thought birthdays were simply ‘social constructs’,”

John murmured into Sherlock’s shoulder, coming back to press his warm, naked body to Sherlock’s back.

“Th… They are,”

Sherlock whined, arching his back as John bit down roughly, worrying the flesh with his teeth, leaving a deep red mark in Sherlock’s pale skin.

“But they matter to you, and you matter to me.”

John laughed, breath warm against Sherlock’s skin, and pressed a hand flat to his back, pushing him gently forwards.

“You can be incredibly sweet sometimes, did you know that?”

Sherlock meant to answer him, he really did, but considering what John did next, he really felt rather justified in… Not.

 

Strong arms gathered Sherlock’s limp form back against a solid chest, and Sherlock rolled over, wincing slightly, to nuzzle against John. John pressed lazy kisses to Sherlock’s hair and forehead, breathing in his scent and working to catch his breath and slow his heartbeat.

“You’re amazing,”

he murmured, cuddling the younger boy closer as he squirmed, _still_ unused to the praise.

“You’re amazing,”

he repeated, tilting Sherlock’s chin up,

“and I love you madly.”

Sherlock squirmed harder, stopping only when John leaned forward to press their lips together. At that, the younger boy relaxed into John’s grip, content. They parted slowly, and Sherlock shifted upwards, resting their foreheads together.

“I love you, too,”

he whispered, and his lips twitched up as he felt John smile.

“Happy birthday.”

**Author's Note:**

> so, normally, my work is *either* pure fluff *or* smut. but i feel kind of weird writing graphic sex involving a fifteen year old, so you get this instead. i call it... smuff.


End file.
